


i come back to the place you are

by asailedsteamboat



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, References to Depression, it's duncan what did u expect, not like in depth but it's definitely Present, that's gonna be a running theme, we speak in metaphors like true auteurs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24642781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asailedsteamboat/pseuds/asailedsteamboat
Summary: Duncan holds out a glass, arm bobbing in the air. I hesitate. It’s a terrible idea, and I know it. The hangover is going to hurt like hell in the morning. Then again, it’s already going to hurt like hell in the morning. Tomorrow morning, and the morning after, and several weeks of mornings after that.If this makes it hurt a little worse, so be it.My chest compresses with a heavy, dull ache, and I think, fuck it.I take the glass and, in one deft motion, down it all.It burns like hell. I smile.
Relationships: Ian Duncan/Original Female Character(s), Ian Duncan/Reader, if u pretend it's basically a x reader fic so i put it in both idk
Comments: 20
Kudos: 31





	1. the light, the heat

**Author's Note:**

> the title is based off of in your eyes by peter gabriel bc i'm pretentious and bad at titles. the duality of man.

It’s a quarter past six and the sun is beginning to wane outside the classroom windows. I quietly suppress another yawn, passively absorbing Professor Duncan’s increasingly slurred rambling. He’s going on about Liverpool’s recent football season and how European football is _real_ football, spilling cheap liquor on the desk each time he pours himself another overfilled glass. I’ve long given up the pretense of grading the stack of papers he’d piled in front of me at the start of our weekly session. I only took the position of (unpaid!) teacher’s aide to meet the credit requirements for the semester, and only a few weeks in, I’m already doubting my decision. 

What no one at the academic office had told me, whether from staggering ignorance or willful omission, was that Professor Duncan was a (debatably) functional alcoholic: a mildly charismatic douche at his soberest and often entirely incoherent at his drunkest, which was far more often than his soberest. But, his incredibly lax standards and incrementally lapsing memory left me with much less work to do than I had initially planned for. Anyway, his voice was surprisingly pleasant to listen to, garbled British mess that it was after half a bottle of booze. 

I notice with no hurry that Duncan had stopped talking and was now looking at me with expectation, although his drunken state made it look more like dazed confusion. 

“Sorry,” I say with a start. “Just spaced out for a second. What were you saying?” 

The professor grins lopsidedly in a way that was presumably supposed to be suave. I fight back a laugh, almost successfully. He doesn’t seem to notice my stifled outburst, however, gesturing to the mostly empty whiskey bottle on his desk. 

“I asked if you wanted to split the rest. There’s not much left.” His voice is low and lazy, but not nearly as slurred as before. Maybe he’s sobering up _._

“I’m sort of in class right now, so...”

Duncan laughs. “Miss Sawyer, as you may have noticed, I am currently teaching said class, and I am _sloshed_.”

He reaches into his desk and retrieves another glass. “Also, you have not touched that stack of papers in front of you for at least an hour, by my admittedly unreliable count,” he continues, pouring a healthy amount of liquor into each glass. I open my mouth, but he holds up a hand before I can speak. “Relax, I’m not going to report you. To be honest, I don’t give two shits about those papers. I don’t read half of what’s on them anyway.” 

Duncan holds out a glass, arm bobbing in the air. I hesitate. It’s a terrible idea, and I know it. The hangover is going to hurt like hell in the morning. Then again, it’s already going to hurt like hell in the morning. Tomorrow morning, and the morning after, and several weeks of mornings after that.

_If this makes it hurt a little worse, so be it._

My chest compresses with a heavy, dull ache, and I think, _fuck it._

I take the glass and, in one deft motion, down it all. 

It burns like hell. I smile. 

Duncan whistles, impressed. “Now _that_ I did not expect.” He follows suit, shooting back his whiskey with practiced ease. I can feel the heat pooling in my stomach: a welcome respite. 

Duncan lifts his eyes to meet mine. Past the thick black-rimmed glasses, they’re soft, brown, and slightly unfocused, although they stay on me with remarkable accuracy given his condition. His hair is charmingly ruffled, and he absentmindedly pushes a piece of it off of his forehead. 

I break first, gaze flitting to the now completely empty bottle on his desk.

“Got anything else?” My voice surprises me, full and a little too loud. “Anything, uh, stronger?”

Duncan studies me for a long moment. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. My fingers start fidgeting anxiously on instinct, but I force them to still. 

“I’ve got plenty more stashed in my office, if you’d like to go there.” 

I blink. _Oh._

Duncan’s eyes widen as the implication hits him. “Oh fuck, oh shit, that’s not- _._ ” He turns an even deeper red than his baseline drunken flush. “Look, I know I’m an asshole but I didn’t- _shit, fuck._ I just meant to get the… um...” 

His stammering trails off as he notices me hiding a smile behind my hand. I clear my throat, forcing a neutral expression. “Sorry, it’s just…”

_You are adorable when you’re embarrassed. Much less of a dick, too._

“I’m a lightweight,” I lie. “Just a little, um, dizzy, I guess. I’m okay with moving to your office.” 

_Am I?_ I don’t know if I would be under normal circumstances, but I’m getting drunk at work with Professor Duncan, so it really doesn’t seem _that_ weird in context. That’s the excuse I’m going with, anyway. Nothing at all to do with the fact that the storm cloud in my chest has briefly burned away in the heat of the alcohol, no sir. 

_(This is how alcoholics are made, you know.)_

_(Just let me have this, alright? Please.)_

Duncan looks relieved and nods once, his head wobbling on his shoulders as he staggers to his feet. “Right on, then. Shall we go?” 

_God, he is_ **_cartoonishly_ ** _English._

With a little difficulty, I rise from my seat straight into a melodramatic curtsy, bowing my head solemnly. “After you, Your Highness,” I say in my best ( _worst )_ royal accent, making sure to pronounce the capital letters. 

His jaw drops in mock outrage and shoddily concealed amusement. “Now that’s basically racist. Also, I would beg you to not disrespect Her Royal Majesty’s most regal of accents with your traitor’s tongue.” 

He punctuates the last few words with a vigorous wave of his hand, only slightly undercut as he stumbles back at the force of his own indignation. 

I laugh, loudly and openly. The warmth in my chest is spreading to my brain now, and the setting sun peeking in from outside seems brighter than before. 

Duncan catches himself on the blackboard, crooked grin blooming. 

“Let’s go while I can still walk unassisted.” 

~

It turns out that time had certainly passed a few glasses ago, although Duncan is loath to admit it. 

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it,” he murmurs, focusing on taking a few zigzagging steps at a time and slumping half his weight onto me. Luckily, his office isn’t far, as the rational part of me is wondering how worth it this actually is for some free booze and pleasant-ish company. The rest of me is thinking about how warm Duncan feels with his arm draped loosely around my shoulder, and the unexpectedly nice scent of his cologne. Was it slightly overpowered by his booze-laced breath? Maybe, but I’m not focusing on that right now. The heat has finally traveled to my limbs and I feel looser than I have in a long time. Years, probably. I’m practically floating, despite the extra weight.

Finally, we reach his office. After shifting to lean heavily on the wall, Duncan manages to fumble his keys from his pocket and unlock the door. Helping him through, I take stock of my surroundings. It’s strangely small for a tenured professor, and characteristically messy. There’s a small couch right next to his desk, and I take a seat. From my new perspective, I notice the trash can has several bottlenecks peering over the rim, and I spot a few more stored in filing cabinets. 

“You’re pretty brazen about the alcohol.”

He huffs, amused. “You could say that.”

_Oh shit, I said that out loud._

“Sorry,” I say again, flushing. 

Duncan waves me off. “Enough apologizing. You’re more fun when you relax.” He walks, wobbly but upright, to an open filing cabinet and pulls out a clear vodka bottle. 

Twisting off the cap, he says, “For a while, I thought you were never going to talk.” Taking a seat at his desk, he pours two glasses, filling them higher than is probably necessary. 

I pause, uncertain. 

Duncan senses my hesitation and wordlessly offers me the glass. I take it, equally silently, and down it just as fast as the last one. 

I wince. “Fuck, I hate vodka.”

“One thing we have in common, then.” 

“Then why do you buy it?”

He shrugs. “Cheaper, I suppose. You drink as much as I do, taste is fairly irrelevant. 

“Fair enough.” The vodka is hitting harder than the whiskey did, and I feel the heat creep up my neck. Duncan takes his slower, opting for two big gulps rather than my admittedly ambitious method. 

Setting the glass down with a thud, he shudders. “That truly is _repulsive_.”

I laugh, cheeks burning already. _Maybe I wasn’t lying when I said I was a lightweight_ , I think lazily. 

“It’s been a while since I’ve been drunk.”

“Me too.”

The corner of my mouth twitches, and I lean heavily against the back of the couch. “If this is what being drunk is like all the time, sign me up.”

“I’m living the dream.” His tone is playful, if heavy on the self-deprecation. 

“Sor-“ Duncan fixes me with a pointed stare. I raise my hands in mock surrender, setting my glass down on the edge of his desk as I do. He rolls his eyes, already pouring himself another drink.

Without looking up, he says, “I haven’t had anyone apply to be a teacher’s aide since I opened the position a few years ago. This is actually quite pleasant.” 

“Uh, thanks, if that was supposed to be a compliment.”

“It was. I suppose I’m not used to giving them. The only praise a British person ever gets is a firm pat on the back and a robust ‘good job, sport.’” He waves his hand dismissively. “Cultural differences and all that.”

“Haven’t you lived here for a while now?”

“You never forget where you come from, Miss Sawyer.” Duncan’s eyes go distant for a brief moment. I almost turn to see what he’s looking at, but he snaps back to attention. “Anyway, that’s the most psychology I’m going to be doing tonight. I don’t get paid enough to tutor for free.” 

Duncan gestures to me with the bottle, an offering. I shake my head. I’m drunk enough, for now at least. He shrugs and downs his glass, throwing it back in one motion this time. He grimaces, jaw flexing as he does. I note the way it subtly moves, dappled with stubble and pronounced. I flush a little deeper. 

The booze is definitely getting to me.

“So,” I say, breaking the silence, “You’ve really never had an aide?”

“My reputation precedes me.” Duncan smiles, with only a hint of bitterness.

_Ah._

“Oh,” I say lamely, fighting the urge to apologize again. “Well, I never heard anything, if that makes it better.” 

“So _that’s_ why you’re here.” He’s partially kidding.

“I don’t mind this.” I realize as I’m saying it that it isn’t a lie. “I mean, obviously the booze is a plus.” 

Duncan laughs.

“But,” I continue, “you make for pretty good company too.” 

There’s genuine surprise on Duncan’s face that he tries to suppress. 

“Thank you,” he says shortly, although his voice has no bite to it. “I… really do appreciate that, Miss Sawyer.” He smiles, almost imperceptibly.

Something bubbles up within me, and I blurt out, “Emily.” 

Duncan blinks, confused. “What?”

I swallow. “You keep calling me Miss Sawyer. You can call me Emily, if you want.”

There’s some indefinable expression that flickers across his face, but it’s gone before I can even attempt to place it. 

“Alright,” he says thoughtfully, nodding. 

“I mean, I’m drinking in your office during work, so…”

“You’d expect that would put us on a first name basis,” he jokes, attempting to diffuse the sudden tension in the air. I’m not sure that it’s working. He’s making it difficult, being so infuriatingly cute. I stare down at the floor, hoping to hide the hitch that has appeared, uninvited, in my chest. 

“I guess so,” I say weakly. 

There’s an awkward silence.

“You… can call me Ian?” He sounds wildly unsure.

“Are you sure?” I ask, doubtful.

Duncan cringes. “No, you’re right, you’re right. I just thought, with you offering, it would be polite to reciprocate, but you’re absolutely right.” 

He’s clearly flustered. I press my lips together, stifling a massive grin as Duncan stutters through his apology, rambling like only someone truly plastered would. 

“It’s definitely weird, I do hear that now. I’m sorry for the-” He stops as I begin laughing uncontrollably now, doubling over. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his lip twitch. I break even harder, covering my mouth with both hands to try to stifle myself, but it’s no use. He starts giggling too, both of us feeding off each other’s drunken giddiness. It’s so ridiculous to be laughing at nothing at all that we can’t stop. The tension snaps as the room is filled with laughter and light, a thousand fireworks set off at once.

The night goes on just like that, drifting by me in a blur. I don’t remember everything from that evening, only holding a warm certainty that it was... happy. We drank more and laughed more and shared more, and everything was so warm and so, so bright, and I just _floated_.

It’s more joy than had ever filled that room before, as Duncan will tell me much later, although not in so many words.

When I wake the next morning, my head throbbing and my mouth dry, I smile. 

There’s a short time where the storm cloud graciously retreats, allowing me a moment alone. I breathe, in and out, soft as I can, basking in the completeness of the silence. I remember the light of Duncan’s office, the warmth of it. I hold the seconds tight and savor every one.

The storm creeps in. I’m flooded again. The heat is gone and the light fades, but the memories hold fast. 

My head throbs harder, but, in the absence of everything else, I’m grateful for the pain.


	2. all my instincts, they return

It’s been over a month since I first visited Duncan’s office and took the leap into the deep end. Since then, any attempts at actual work have been largely abandoned. Sure, we still start in the psych classroom and Duncan makes the gesture of setting a stack of papers in front of me to grade, but it only takes a few minutes before he cracks a bottle of whiskey or rum and we forget about them completely. Eventually, when we feel like we’ve pretended long enough, one of us suggests moving to the office to be more comfortable. Usually it’s Duncan who brings it up; lately, I’ve found myself waiting him out. 

In the times where I’m completely honest with myself (times that are becoming fewer and far between, something I also only admit in those rare moments of sincerity), I know that it’s because I want to feel him leaning on my shoulders as I half-carry him to his office, the smell of his cologne in my nostrils and unspoken words on my lips. The thought of it scares me, and I don’t let myself dwell on it much. Luckily, time spent with Duncan rarely involves thinking.

Today, however... 

“Aren’t you a little old to be taking classes at  _ Greendale _ ?” Duncan slurs, his inhibitions absent as his manners. He’s listing to one side in his office chair and swirling a glass of whiskey in his right hand.

“Okay, ouch.” I scoff, pretending to be offended. “I’m still younger than you are.”

“Not by much, also I get paid to be here. That’s a key difference.”

“Oh, as if Cambridge was jumping at the chance to hire you.”

He chokes on his drink, coughing out a laugh that spirals up into a short fit of giggles. I glow with an embarrassing amount of pride (and something else I avoid putting a name to), although I try not to show it. 

“Touché,” Duncan sputters, still catching his breath. He passes me another drink; he knows my routine well enough by now that words aren’t really necessary. I take a sip and hum in surprise. 

“This is… really good.”

Duncan grins. “Didn’t think it was possible that I had some degree of taste?”

“No.” 

“Well, I do. When I bother, anyway.”

“What’s the occasion?” I ask, taking a bigger sip this time. 

“No occasion, just felt like I’d left it lying around for long enough. Didn’t want to waste it, and two drink faster than one.”

“Depends on who the two and one are, but I get your point.” I want to savor it, but the appeal of being drunk( _ er than you already are? _ ) is too enticing to resist. Duncan and I lock eyes, nod wordlessly, and down our drinks, perfectly synchronized. It goes down smooth.

“But, really,” Duncan says, setting his glass on the desk, “what does bring you to Greendale?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Since when do we discuss real life?” 

“Since right now.” He sounds more smug than the situation warrants.

I roll my eyes, but I can feel my pulse picking up speed. 

“You go first, then I’ll tell you,” I say, too casually. 

“Fair enough,” he shrugs. He reaches towards me, and I automatically offer him my empty glass. “Not much to say, unfortunately.”

As he pours us each a drink, he says, “It starts with the classic immigrant story, of course. Child forced to flee his homeland, torn apart and in disastrous condition, leaving his close family behind in order to survive. Tragic, really.” 

“And you grew up in…?”

“Birmingham.”

“Right.”

“Anyway,” Duncan continues, “a very long story short, I left Britain, moved here, developed an interest in psychology as well as a healthy case of alcoholism, got a P.H.D. and several DUIs, and voilà! Greendale is the only school that would hire me.” He rattles off his life story like it was an unusually boring grocery list. 

I blink a few times, processing. Duncan passes me my drink, and I absentmindedly bring it to my lips, buying myself some time. 

“That’s, uh… a lot of information,” I say carefully.

“Nothing you hadn’t already guessed the first time we met.”

“Well…” 

He laughs. “Come on, Emily, you haven’t tried to tiptoe around me for a long time.” My heart lurches, still not entirely used to Duncan using my first name. 

“I know, it’s just…” I pause, searching for the right words. “Not entirely sure what to say about—” I gesture broadly.

“All of it?”

“Sure.”

“We’ve all got our bullshit,” he says lightly, taking another drink from his glass. “So, are you going to share your story with the class?”

I force a laugh. “Mine’s not any more interesting than yours.”

“Maybe not, but I haven’t heard it before.” 

There’s a strained silence. I busy myself with booze, focusing intently on the contents of my glass as if I could dive in if I stared hard enough. 

“Or,” Duncan says quickly, “if you don’t want to, we can move on. Back to our regularly scheduled nonsense, no questions asked.”

He sounds genuine, and part of me desperately wants to take his offer.

“Nah, a deal’s a deal.” I say, keeping my tone breezy. Given Duncan’s vaguely worried expression, I’m pretty sure of my success rate on that count.

“Like I said, not that exciting,” I start, my hands already tapping out an anxious rhythm into the couch cushions. “I tried college at the normal time, and it didn’t go… well. Bad grades, bad behavior, the whole nine.” I’m studying the paisley pattern of Duncan’s couch intently, tracing the designs over and over. “Got kicked out, spent a lot of years not thinking about my future at all, sudden onset of panic about how far behind I am in life, and by that point only Greendale would take me.” 

I look up to see Duncan examining me with a curious expression. He shifts it to nonchalance.

“So, pretty similar to you.”

“It seems that way,” Duncan says mildly, leaning back in his office chair. “Any specifics on the bad behavior, or should I just assume you blew up a professor's car?”

I laugh. “Nothing like that, no. I wish. At least I’d be a school legend along with being expelled.”

Duncan raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“Do you really need to know?”

“Not technically, no, but I would certainly like to.”

I bite my lip, lightly pounding my fist on the cushion next to me. 

“I, um… tried to steal my school record and change my grades.” It's a blatant lie, and shame rises up in the back of my throat. I studiously ignore it. “I hadn’t been to class since the first week of school.” A token amount of truth. “I didn’t get very far, but trying was enough, apparently.” Close enough.

I stumble through my half-true half-confession as articulately as my drunken tongue will allow me. Avoiding eye contact, I down the rest of my whiskey with trembling fingers and a set jaw. 

There’s a pregnant pause, but Duncan eventually breaks the silence. 

“That’s it?” 

I look over at him, wary. He’s smiling now, lopsided and sloppy, tilting his head loosely to the side. “I thought you were going to go say you murdered your roommate, or Photoshopped yourself over the dog from Air Bud dunking to get a basketball scholarship.”

I let out a bewildered laugh.

“I mean it!” He’s shouting excitedly now, whiskey sloshing out of his glass as he gesticulates wildly. “Where’s the creativity, that spark, a certain  _ je ne sais quois _ ? That’s middle of the road, frankly  _ boring  _ expulsion-assuring behavior.” He shakes his head sadly, settling into his chair again. “I’m not mad, just disappointed.”

My stomach twists in a way I can’t quite pin down, guilt and gratitude in equal measure. Despite his jovial tone, Duncan looks the most sincere he ever has. His expression turns gentle, a smile barely tugging at his lips. His tie is crooked under his light grey sweater vest; my fingers twitch with the need to straighten it.

I clear my throat. “That wasn’t really the reaction I expected.” My voice is steady, measured. I’m almost proud.

“What did you think I’d say?” His tone is one of casual curiosity. 

_ you’re crazy broken stupid insane get away from me you psycho— _

“I, um— I don’t know,” I say hesitantly. “Just… not that, I guess.”

He hums in affirmation.

The stillness stretches out in front of us, but I start to settle into it, strangely enough. Duncan seems to be in no hurry to begin another conversation; he’s already half-zoned out, his expression resting somewhere between pensive and comatose. My breathing starts to return to normal, and I’m no longer gripping my drink so hard I’m afraid it’ll break. I take the time to polish it off; Duncan has already finished his.

“I like hanging out with you,” Duncan says out of the blue, extremely matter-of-fact.

I laugh. “How drunk are you?”

“Very,” he admits, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t mean it.”

“Sometimes it does.”

Duncan gives me an uncharacteristically serious, if bleary, look. “Well, I do.”

The bottom of my stomach drops out. I stay composed.

“Uh, right back ‘atcha.”

“Smooth.”

“Fuck you.”

That provokes the highly inebriated Duncan into a fit of hysterics. I smile despite myself. He may be a dumbass, but he’s  _ my  _ dumbass.

_ Oh,  _ I realize abruptly, _ I am very very drunk right now.  _

“I should head home.”

“As much as I hate to admit it, you are probably right,” Duncan concedes. He steadies himself on his desk and carefully rises to his feet. 

“Wow, okay.” He blinks rapidly, three, four, seven times. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be in getting you to an Uber.”

“I can walk by myself, it’s f—“ 

It’s then that I try to stand up.

“Shit—“ I teeter backwards and sit back on the couch with a heavy thump. I blink dizzily. “Alright, I— alright.”

Duncan is making a chivalrous effort to keep a straight face, which I appreciate.

“Would you like some help?” He asks evenly. 

“Fuck off.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He offers me his arm, bent at the elbow. I shoot him a nasty look, but accept the help, gripping him tightly as I rise to my feet.

“I am absolutely never going to let you live this down,” Duncan announces cheerfully as he leads me through the door. 

“Shut up, Duncan.”

Luckily, it doesn’t take long for us to at least partially regain our balance, and we make our way through Greendale at a reasonable pace. It’s only when we reach the bus stop that we realize neither of us had actually remembered to call an Uber. 

The evening air is cool against my flushed skin as I tap numbly at my phone screen. I can hear Duncan next to me, quietly swearing as he tries in vain to access his currently nonexistent hand-eye coordination. 

I roll my eyes and hold my hand out expectantly. “Let me do it, save us both the embarrassment.”

Duncan protests but gives up easily as I pull the phone from his unresisting grip. I tap through a few options and the app confirms the ride. I hand his phone back. 

“There you go.” 

“My hero,” Duncan says dryly.

“You could say thanks.”

He sighs heavily, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Thank you, Emily. For a good evening, and for calling me a cab.” 

He pauses, then dips into a deep, unsteady bow. “My liege.” 

“Shut  _ up,  _ Duncan,” I say, exasperated, but smiling. “You’re welcome. I had a good time too.”

Silence falls between us again. It’s casual, comforting in its familiarity. Duncan gets lost in another brief daze, his brows furrowed in concentration as he stares off into the night. His tie is still a mess, and the button up he has on under his sweater-vest is untucked in a way that he couldn't have convinced anyone was intentional. 

Instinctively, I say, “Hold still.” 

As he turns to me with a start, I step forward, lightly taking hold of his tie. It’s a dark royal blue, nearly black in the dim light of dusk. As I tighten the knot snug against his collar, I notice little white pin-pricks accenting the material, tiny flowers dotted like stars. I run the pad of my thumb over the designs absentmindedly. 

“Um,” Duncan says dimly. 

“Sorry, that was bothering me.”

“What, um… what are you doing?”

I blink, finally looking up. Duncan is only a few inches taller than me, but standing this close, it feels like a lot more. He mostly looks confused, but there’s something else there that I can't place. I can feel his chest rising and falling under my touch. His body heat radiates outward, winning the battle against the nighttime chill. 

I’m still holding his tie. 

I don’t have time to think. I yank him down, not too roughly, until we're looking each other eye to eye. His are soft and brown and very, very wide. 

“Is this okay?” I murmur, my voice low. 

“I don’t— shouldn’t I be asking you that?” he asks breathlessly. His pupils are blown out; he can’t seem to look away. I don’t think I can either.

“Is that a yes?” 

My grip on his tie loosens: a signal. This is his choice. He can pull away any time he wants to. 

He doesn’t.

“I... yes, but—”

I cut him off, feverishly pressing my lips to his. My free arm loops around the back of his neck, pulling him flush against me. I can feel his breath catch in his chest. His body stiffens for just a moment, before he reaches up and buries his hand in my hair. 

I let go of his tie and run my hands through his in return. Duncan stumbles a bit at the change in position, but steadies himself with a hand on my hip. 

I bite his lip lightly and he hisses. 

“Ow, careful.” He’s practically panting. 

I grin against him, biting a little harder.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he whimpers. Jesus, he fucking  _ whimpers _ . “Okay, I—  _ shit _ , hold on.”

I pull back, taking the moment to catch my breath. Duncan’s hair is wild, his eyes wilder. He steps back from the embrace, dazed. 

His tie is askew again. I leave it.

“You still alright?” 

Duncan blinks. “I, uh… yes. I’m fine.”

I press my lips together. “Only fine?”

He reddens, clearly flustered.  _ He’s so fucking cute when he does that.  _ “Yes,  _ only _ fine.”

Grinning, I reach up and tidy his hair, pushing it off his forehead. Duncan sucks the air in through his teeth, tensing ever so slightly.

“There. Now you look presentable.” 

He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. He clears his throat.

“Do you… want this?” Duncan asks haltingly. He reaches for me before pulling back, stuffing his hands in his pockets. 

I can’t help but laugh. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” I repeat teasingly, holding my palms up in front of me. 

Duncan flushes again. “I figured I should ask,” he says, taking hold of them tentatively. “We’re both very, uh… y’know.”

“Wasted?” I run my thumb over his knuckles. 

“Sure,” he says quietly, returning the gesture. I inhale sharply and catch a hint of his cologne, above even the strong presence of booze. “Something like that.”

My eyes drift up from our interlocked hands and up to meet his. I take the time to study his irises, dark and drowsy. It’s hard to appreciate the finer details, with the poor lighting and my drunken state, but I take my time. I light up wherever his skin touches mine; by now my knuckles are shooting up sparks. 

Duncan leans down and kisses me. There’s no hurry this time, no fervent energy propelling us forward. He cups my face in his hands. I clutch at his sides, pulling him in closer. 

The kiss is gentle and sweet.  _ He’s so warm _ , I think aimlessly. My grip on him tightens ever so slightly, and I can feel him smile through the kiss.

My ambling thoughts are cut off by the sound of a car pulling up next to the curb. Even with my eyes closed, the flash of its headlights is impossible to ignore. 

I pull back reluctantly, the bite of the evening air only heightening the loss of contact. Looking over, I say, “Think that’s mine.”

Duncan follows my gaze and hums. “Probably right.”

There’s an awkward silence. I don’t know what to say.

“See you next week?” It sounds more like a question than I meant it.

Duncan doesn’t seem to notice. “Next week it is,” he says, the corner of his mouth curving up. I flush, and there’s a weird pit in my stomach, but I can’t help but smile back. I don’t think there’s enough room in my head to worry right now. It feels nice.

~

As the driver pulls away from the curb, I give Duncan a wave. He grins and waves back, then holds up his index finger. 

It’s a promise:  _ see you in a week.  _ I let out a breath that I don’t remember holding.

I do the same:  _ meet you there. _


End file.
